The 15th Annual Hunger Games
by ThisBlondeChick
Summary: Promises made should not always be promises kept.
1. Chapter 1

My brother and I had this promise: if one of us were reaped, then the other would volunteer to keep them safe. Silly, yes, but it was enough to keep the tears away the night before a reaping ceremony. Besides, there were over a hundred names in that bowl, and chances were that we'd never have the chance to make good on that promise.

But this is not a story of chance. It is a story of life, death, fate, and how I met my end.


	2. Chapter 2

Life in District 3 is fast and bustling, but nearly devoid of life. We are often bypassed by the people too jaded by Capitol trends to appreciate technology, even the technology under their feet. Since I was twelve, I've been working in the factories, manufacturing the high-speed trains that carry citizens and various Tributes across Panem. Life wasn't always this way.

I was born in a time of fear and anguish, where Peacekeepers squashed any who opposed them. I was born into a rebellion, but by the time my brother was born, the Capitol had asserted its dominance by eliminating a district, and all of those who did not comply. And in the ending of an uprising, came even more suffering.

Fifteen years ago, the Capitol implemented a populace control system known as The Hunger Games. Ever since, children have waited in crowds of their friends and families once a year to watch two Tributes, a boy and a girl, be drafted into a battle for the entertainment of Panem. A battle that they may not survive.

Today, my brother and I may face the same fate.

This year is the third year that Stephen is eligible to compete, having turned fifteen last month. I, being seventeen, have attended five reaping ceremonies, and have watched as ten of my friends walked up next to Yessenia Block and accept their nomination, scanning the crowd for those brave enough to volunteer to compete on their behalf. My district has yet to see any tribute granted mercy.

My brother and I could pass for twins despite our age difference, and have on occasion. Our mother's influence on our genetics is easy to see, as we both bear her green eyes and brown hair. As for my father, we share his small build and stature, as well as his ability to sway people to his side. He tells me again and again that I could volunteer for the Games and win, using my wit and charm alone, but those are only skills he's taught me. I've been raised to win over those who may help me in the future, and those who may give me free items if I say the right things. It has proved to be a helpful skill, as my brother and I are well liked by the community and the level of popularity has aided us in survival during the winter months.

I was not sure how well these skills would work in the arena, however, as I had watched many a Tribute be killed before they even know what hit them. Typically, they don't have the chance to plead their case, attempt to make an ally, or even make a televised appeal to God or their families. No. Lives end in mere milliseconds. So, instead, I've trained Stephen and myself the art of sneaking, as we are small enough to squeeze through small passages, and even walk without breaking a single stick. I've worked long and hard on honing this skill. Stephen, however, had it mastered in days. Even in survival, he's ahead of the curve. None of these facts settle my stomach the morning of a reaping, but it helps to know that there is a chance of winning, no matter how small.


	3. Chapter 3

I woke up that morning from a nightmare. I saw myself in the woods, hunting. Strange, as there isn't a wood in District 3, just buildings, but I could see it clear as day. I was about to shoot a fawn, when suddenly it morphed, its face bubbling and shifting until it was the face of my brother, my best friend. In my head, shock overtook me, but my fingers released the arrow, as if they were predestined to do so. Stephen fell to the ground, dead.

I had killed my own brother, and I had done it without hesitation.

I woke up screaming, waking Stephen who quickly rushed to my side, wrapping his arms around me.

"It's okay!" He says, hushed and comforting, "it'll be okay. It was just a dream."

I looked him in the eyes and put my hands on his face, testing their stability. I needed proof that I was dreaming. He is solid, real, and I hug him close to me. I've had the same dream four nights in a row, and I can't shake the feeling that it's trying to tell me something, something about the future. I shove the feeling back down inside and go down to breakfast.

The family sits in silence, no one daring to speak. The next thing someone says could be the last thing we hear, so we keep quite. No one knows what to say. After what seems like an eternity, my mother's voice escapes the silence.

"Sofia dear, I washed your favorite dress for you special." She smiles at me, and I smile back. "It is your last year, after all."

My entire brain fills with a euphoria I can't say I'd ever felt before. This will be my last year, my last tears, my last time standing in the pool of doomed children. My eyes meet Stephen's and he smiles. He knows how much this means to me, but there is a hint of sadness buried beneath his green irises. Next year and the year after, he will have no one there to protect him, and I will have no way to console him. The one promise that mattered becomes invalid.

The euphoria soon evaporates into dread as I imagine my brother in the arena, cold, alone, dying. I push it out of my mind as fast as I can and assure myself that it'll never happen. There are too many names in that bowl, too many children putting their lives in the bowl over and over again just to ensure that their families have enough food to make it through the day, for him to be picked. I cannot afford to think that way. I have to flood my mind with optimism.

After breakfast, Stephen and I retreat to our bedrooms to dress for the occasion. I clean myself up in the tub a bit, and put on the dress mother laid out. She made it for me to wear during my first reaping ceremony, and I've worn it every year since, despite its growing more and more snug with each passing year. My father calls it my "lucky dress", and I suppose I believe it to be true. It's silly, but I feel as though it has helped me elude becoming that year's tribute. This year, however, the dress is very tight, so tight I can barely breathe. I have to suck in as much as I can to even bend over. My mind tells me to take it off, but my heart says that I can't do this without it. I keep it on, in spite of myself.

I meet Stephen on the porch outside. He sits, head in his hands, thinking. I sit next to him.

"No matter what happens, we'll come home again soon."

He sighs, lifting his eyes to mine. "I can't win."

"You don't have to."

"And if I do?"

"Hey," I reply, placing my hand on the back of his head and pulling it toward mine until out foreheads touch, "if anyone's got to, it'll be me. My name's in there more than yours. And you know that I can kick anyone's ass." He smiles at me. "Besides, I'd be there with you anyway, remember." I hold out my pinky. "A promise is a promise. I'll always be there to protect you."

His finger meets mine and we seal it. "And I'll be there for you."

"I know you will." We smile, and begin to walk to the justice building. It's a short walk, but it feels like an eternity.


	4. Chapter 4

The routine that comes with a reaping day has become nothing but a second nature to my brother and me. We are numbed to the pain of the blood test, and don't show our emotions as we are corralled into groups based on gender. I close my eyes when Yessenia takes the stage.

"Hello District 3!" She shouts, and pauses as if waiting for cheers. We do not meet her expectations, and she sighs in reply, pushing her long blue hair out of her face. "Happy 15th annual Hunger Games!" Still no reply from the crowd. She stares down at her blue fingernails in frustration. This is her first year in District 3, having officiated over District 1 in previous years. She's probably used to quite the welcome.

Everything about her emanates Capitol influence, from her glittery, almost jaundiced skin to her icy dyed fingertips. Just by looking at her, I can tell she's never tasted hardship or struggle, or even seen any plains of post-rebellion Panem. She's been harbored and sheltered in the Capitol and areas surrounding it for quite some time, and I'd take any bet that this is her first time outside it. She looks nervous, angry, as if she'd lost a bet and the punishment is representing a lesser district. Regardless, she takes a deep breath and, much to my dread, presses on.

"Well, let's not waste any time here, shall we?" She continues with a fake smile. At the snap of her fingers, side-stage attendants roll out two separate tables carrying large glass bowls filled to the brim with slips of white paper. They need no introduction. "As always, ladies first." She lowers a well-tended hand into the first bowl, and I close my eyes again. I just need to get through this one last moment, this one last moment and I'm free. We wait, breathless, for what feels like an eternity as she fishes through the bowl. Finally, she reads, "Sophia Trina."

I can't feel the muscles in my face, and all of my breath escapes me.

_No._

"Sophia, dear? Please join me on the stage!"

_No._

Peacekeepers grab both of my arms and pull me towards the front. I can't breathe. I have to be dreaming. I finally reach the stage, and I search the crowd frantically for Stephen. I have to let him know that everything will be okay. I have to tell him not to panic.

"How old are you dear?" Yessenia asks, holding the microphone close to my face.

I fumble to find the words. "S-…Seventeen."

"Oh, so old! Soon you'll be needing a walker!" She laughs, and pauses for laughter from the crowd. She again achieves nothing and clears her throat in embarrassment. "Well, now let's see who'll be joining you, shall we?" She dips her hand into the other bowl and fishes yet another name out. "Devi-"

"I volunteer!"

_No no no no no NO NO!_

Stephen's had shoots up among the other children and shouts again, "I volunteer as Tribute!"

Yessenia smiles, and I can't stop myself from crying. _The promise! _I had forgotten, and now one of us will die. I am trembling, shaking from the trauma. "No!" I yell. The crowd, along with our escort, gasps. "No no no!" I can't even see straight. I want to run, but I can't move. I feel like a child throwing a tantrum. Yessenia looks toward one of the Peacekeepers on stage and gestures off, and they take me away.

The last thing I hear before the doors close is this: "Goodbye, and happy Hunger Games!"


End file.
